Carnies Page 25

  What are you doing? his father yelled. You should have killed him by now!

  ‘He’s fast...’ David gasped, still on his hands and knees. He managed to climb to his feet and turn around. He expected Paul to be right there with his cane raised, ready to deliver the final blow.

  Instead, he found him standing where he had been. The cane’s tip was pointing at the floor. In his eyes there was nothing except regret.

  KILL IT! his father screamed in his head. KILL IT NOW!

  Roaring, David lunged forward. Spittle flew from his mouth as he charged. Paul seemed too stunned to move out of the way of his attack this time. David slammed into him and knocked him backwards into a wall. The thick wooden planks splintered a little beneath the impact and the cane flew from Paul’s hand.

  All eyes watched it as it tumbled end over end through the air, as if in slow motion. It spun and spun, then...

  David caught its handle easily, the rounded end hitting his palm with a satisfying slap. He held it in front of his face, grinning, then turned his gaze to his brother.

  Paul was leaning against the wall wheezing for breath, his eyes closed. His arms were crossed around his belly. He was winded, distracted. Vulnerable.

  David ran forward, swinging the cane above his head with both hands. His vision was tinged with red. At the last second he brought the cane forward with all his strength, bellowing furiously.

  YES! his father screamed, jubilant.

  The tip of the cane pierced Paul’s chest dead centre.

  The breastbone cracked under it. David felt that moment’s hesitation as it hit the heart. The tough muscle gave way, then it was through. It skidded to one side of the spine, scraped on the bone, then burst from Paul’s back and hit the rough wooden wall with a loud crack. Then that gave way too, and the cane continued until David’s hands were almost against Paul’s chest. Only then did it stop.

  Paul’s eyes flew wide open, pain and shock evident in them. He gasped once, and a soft spray of blood stained his lips. He jerked once or twice in vain, collapsed forwards and stopped moving.

  The carnies were all silent, except for the one carrying Paul’s child, Jasmine. She screamed wordlessly.

  David stood there for a moment longer, his hands still on the handle of the cane, soaked with blood. Then he let go and staggered backwards, blinking.

  Well done, his father said, but this time he barely heard it. All he could see was the man pinned to the wall like some gigantic butterfly. No, not a man. A monster. A monster. Not a man, not...

  Not his brother. Not Paul.

  ‘Oh Jesus...’ he moaned, still backing away. ‘Oh

  Jesus...’

  I’m proud of you, son, the voice said. Still he ignored it.

  From behind him he could hear Rachel sobbing. And she wasn’t the only carnie reacting to what had just happened. There were hot tears and angry cries now, confused questions and bitter laughs. He hadn’t expected any of this.

  You did the right thing. God is happy with you.

  ‘Shut up!’ he yelled to everyone and no one, to the world, the carnies and himself. ‘Just shut up!’

  There was silence. Shocked silence. Angry silence. David stumbled back to the chair, picked up his knife along the way and slid it back into its sheath without thinking. He grabbed the rifle from the side of it and aimed it at the crowd vaguely, waving the barrel wildly.

  ‘Does anyone here doubt me now?’ he demanded, his eyes darting around the room. ‘Anyone? Anyone?’

  There wasn’t a sound, but violence hung in the air, palpable.

  He turned to Tacker. ‘Hey, boy,’ he said, his voice softer now, calmer. Tacker turned to him, fear and confusion in his eyes. ‘It’s okay,’ David soothed, ‘I’m fine now.’

  But he wasn’t fine. He’d killed his brother.

  Not your brother, his father repeated, authority ringing in every syllable. That thing on the wall is not your brother. Now get him down and out of here. He’s a martyr to these creatures, hanging there like that.

  ‘Okay,’ he mumbled, numb to his core. But he couldn’t do it himself. He couldn’t face that. ‘Tacker?’

  The bikie looked up at him again. He seemed a little happier now.

  ‘Get my... get that thing off the wall!’

  Tacker grinned and scampered over to the wall. He sniffed Paul’s feet for a moment, then stood up. He held onto the body’s shoulders, which obscured it entirely from David’s sight, for which he was very grateful. David sat back in the seat, his knees still shaky, and bowed his head, praying under his breath.

  ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...’

  There was a rough wrenching noise from the wall. David tried to ignore it.

  ‘...and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive...’

  Tacker gasped. David looked up from his prayers.

  The bikie was still standing in front of his brother’s... in front of Paul’s... in front of the body. But he was very still.

  ‘Tacker?’ he called. He felt something brush across the back of his neck, something from inside, something he hadn’t felt since he’d been changed, liberated.

  Fear.

  The bikie still didn’t move. David stood up and walked over to him. The silence in the hall was absolute, except for the soft sound of rain on the roof. He paused halfway.

  ‘Tacker?’

  The bikie turned around then, his eyes wide and confused. Tacker’s throat had been slit ear to ear and clear through to the spine. It was like a huge, gaping second mouth. The edges sizzled, slobbered with blood and bubbled with futile dying breaths from Tacker’s lungs. The man’s front was entirely soaked with blood, which was falling on the wooden floor. That was the noise that David had mistaken for rain.

  Tacker seemed as though he was trying to speak, but he was already dead. He fell to his knees, then onto his face, and a puddle of blood spread beneath him.

  David looked at his fallen general, horrified and confounded. Then he looked up at the body still pinned to the wall.

  Its eyes were open.

  -43-

  Pain!

  When Paul had first come up with his plan in the motel room just a matter of hours earlier, he thought he’d worked everything out, figured every possible angle, accounted for every eventuality. He knew this would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

  He was wrong. Very, very wrong. It didn’t hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. It didn’t even hurt like a motherfucking cock-sucker. No, the swear words hadn’t been invented to describe the sensations he was now experiencing. He thought he’d experienced pain before in his life: the forklift accident, the months of physio, even the more recent broken leg he’d suffered at the hands of the late Amos. But each of these agonies, significant as they’d seemed at the time, were like tiny droplets of water splashing against his brain. This, though... this was a fucking flood, which washed away everything in its path, leaving only itself, and itself, and itself.

  PAIN!

  The plan had occurred to him the moment Alvan had shown him the cane, the one David had left in the motel room, the one coated in silver. Apart from that, it had been identical to the black one he was still using. He’d seen the cane, and the plan had simply appeared in his head, full-grown and ready to rock and roll. He’d known that David would have been too dangerous to try and take on mano a mano, but he also knew there was no other way his brother would have it. He’d known that, given a chance, David would disable him as quickly and easily as he had rendered Amos powerless. He’d also known that David hadn’t silvered his cane for nothing. He’d wanted to use it. Probably had, in fact, on the bound and helpless body of the carnival’s former manager. The cane was the key.

  Then, in a flash of inspiration, he’d known exactly how to proceed, how to make David vulnerable. The only way his brother would let down his guard would be if he thought he’d won already. And all the better if he did it with Paul’s own weapon. And better still if it was his
own cane, a symbol of his weakness - his need for a crutch, both literal and figurative.

  Paul had looked at the silver cane, and then at his own, and remembered back to when he and David had first arrived at the motel. Remembered the new-looking oven. Remembered the smell.

  He had remembered the can of silver spray paint under the sink.

  It had only taken a few minutes to turn his black cane silver. It certainly wouldn’t hold up to close inspection, but Paul didn’t plan on giving anyone a chance to look too closely at it. He’d let it dry in the back of Alvan’s van while they’d made their way to the encampment, then wrapped it up in canvas, ready to reveal to his brother in a dramatic fashion. He had planned to fight using it, careful not to let the silver shaft touch his brother’s skin, and then ‘accidentally’ drop it in such a way that David would pick it up himself and use it on him. Once David believed the fight was over, he’d come close to inspect the body, only to be taken by surprise. Paul would slash out with the small knife he’d taken from the motel room, and the blade of this one would be actual silver.

  It was the perfect plan, and it had gone without a hitch. Right up until the moment he’d been run through and crucified.

  PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN!

  Although his eyes were open, all Paul could see were his own tears. Rainbows formed in his eyes through the streaming water. But he’d seen the person standing in front of him, felt the hands on his shoulders attempting to pry him from the wall. He’d drawn a breath, and felt his lungs slide past the smooth shaft of his cane, heard his heart try to beat despite being punctured. Every tiny movement was branded with utter agony. But even so, he’d managed to reach behind himself and pull out the knife. Then he had struck out fast and true. He knew he’d dealt a killing blow, knew it the way you knew you’d bowled a strike the moment the ball left your hand. The figure standing before him staggered back and turned around.

  And then he’d seen the back of the jacket, even through the tears, in the seconds before the man collapsed and died at his feet. He could even make out what was written on it: ‘The Pack’.

  He’d killed the wrong man.

  He felt like screaming. He wanted to release a howl of despair and rage, but there was no air in his lungs. In that instant his advantage had disappeared completely. The element of surprise had been utterly wasted on his brother’s slobbering lackey. Now he was pinned to a wall, his heart and lungs skewered, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop David.

  He’d failed. Yet again.

  He looked over the fallen body, blinking away the tears as best he could. The expression on David’s face melted and flowed like wax. It started out confused and shocked, but quickly became something horrible, a wry acknowledgement combined with vicious triumph. Paul had won the battle, but by doing so he had lost the war. It was over, and David knew it. He grinned, that horrible death-mask grin that held no humour, only purest malice.

  Paul knew he was going to die, and knew that the rest of the carnies would too. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. The knife dropped from his numb fingers to the wooden floor with a soft clatter.

  David didn’t move for a long time. Then he applauded.

  ‘Well done, little brother, well done,’ he said, voice cold. ‘A good little scheme you hatched there.’ He sniffed a few times. ‘You’re very lucky I wasn’t paying close attention to my nose. The paint still stinks. I should have noticed.’ His smile didn’t waver. ‘Does it stink inside you, Paul? When you breathe, can you taste it?’

  Paul didn’t respond. He was trying to get the pain under control, convince his body that it was irrelevant. The cane couldn’t kill him, no matter how much it hurt. Once it was removed he’d heal up, given the chance. But if David had his way he wouldn’t have that chance. None of them would.

  He had to stall. Time was his only ally now. At least, the only ally in the room.

  ‘David,’ he wheezed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He wanted to cough, but knew he couldn’t, not with a metal shaft through his chest. ‘David... please... don’t do this...’

  ‘Do what?’ David asked, eyes innocent, but there was still that smile, that damned smile.

  Paul tried to meet David’s eyes. ‘Don’t... hurt the others,’ he managed to gasp.

  David laughed then, long and hard, a hysterical, chilling laugh. It was an empty laugh, though, empty of anything other than madness.

  ‘Why?’ Paul asked, forcing the pain aside.

  ‘Why?’ David echoed back, incredulous. ‘Why? Isn’t it obvious?’

  Paul shook his head.

  ‘Because you’re evil, that’s why,’ he spat, still grinning. ‘Because it’s my calling, my mission. My fate.’ He moved closer to Paul. ‘You tried to turn me away from the path after you corrupted my brother, but I prevailed. Now I use your own powers against you - you and all your kind.’

  ‘I... I am your brother, David,’ Paul gasped. ‘Can’t you... see that?’

  David met his eyes then, and for a moment there was a faint glimmer of reason, a glimpse of the man who’d raised him as a child. They hadn’t always got along. In fact they’d fought like cat and dog for most of it, but they had always been brothers. Now they were strangers, enemies. But just then, for a second, Paul saw his brother again.

  David closed his eyes and flinched, as if someone had hit him. Paul watched, and realised he’d seen it before, a few minutes earlier, before they’d begun to fight. He’d said something afterwards, too, something bizarre: ‘Yes, Father.’

  Paul looked at his brother and remembered something else, something Rachel had said to Alvan at his homestead: ‘It’s dangerous for the change to occur outside the group, Alvan. It needs to be controlled, directed. It’s a perilous path to walk alone.’

  Suddenly Paul understood just how perilous it was.

  ‘David,’ he ordered, ‘don’t listen to him.’

  ‘What?’ David looked up. His eyes snapped open and darted about like a panicked horse.

  ‘He’s dead, David,’ Paul said, his eyes never leaving David’s. ‘Dad’s dead. You know that.’

  -44-

  Don’t listen to it, his father warned David. It’s lying.

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured. Then louder, to Paul: ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘I’m not lying, David,’ Paul said. His face had changed. The pain had vanished, and in its place was sadness, and sympathy. With the blood trickling down his chest and from his mouth, pinned to the wall, he looked... beatific, somehow. Almost like...

  Don’t think like that! the voice yelled in his head, and David flinched again. He is not your brother. He is not your brother!

  ‘You’re not my brother!’ he roared, his face reddening. His head hurt. There was a throbbing behind his eyes in time with his heartbeat, which was getting faster. He advanced towards Paul’s skewered body.

  ‘Yes I am, David,’ Paul said. ‘I am your brother. I’m here, and I’m alive. And so are you.’ He shook his head. ‘But Dad is dead. And you know it.’

  ‘No...’ David moaned, clutching the sides of his head, still walking forward. ‘No...’

  ‘David, don’t you remember? You used to protect me from him.’

  ‘No!’ he screamed, but somewhere inside, he did remember. After their mother had died, their father had become even stricter, even more devout. He’d seen sin in everything and everyone, and had made it his life’s work to eradicate it. And his favourite method of cleansing sin was with the rod, or the belt, or his fists if necessary. David had borne the brunt of his father’s pious rages, often taking the blame for Paul’s mistakes as well as his own. Time after time he’d been beaten bloody, while Paul watched on from a distant corner, curled up, crying. He’d come to resent Paul for that, for getting away so lightly. Afterwards, lying in bed, he’d curse his little brother. But the next time it happened, if Paul spilt the milk or broke a vase, he’d step forward and accept the blame again without hesitation. And the reas
on was simple.

  He loved Paul.

  Paul is dead, his father hissed inside his brain. I am alive!

  ‘No...’ he said again. His voice was small, like that of a child. But he kept walking forward, regardless.

  Destroy the creature that mocks your brother’s form, the voice in his head said, crafty now. If you truly love him, set him free.

  ‘Yes...’ he breathed, and pulled free the knife from the sheath on his hip. ‘Yes...’

  ‘No,’ Paul said as his brother approached. There was no fear in his voice, no pleading for his life. It was a simple statement of fact. ‘Whatever he’s telling you, don’t listen to it.’

  Do it...

  ‘Don’t do it...’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ David screamed, and slashed out with the knife. Paul turned his head aside in time to avoid having his nose sliced in two, but the silver blade still cut across his cheek and face. The cut started at the jaw and ended halfway up his forehead. He cried out in pain, and the flesh around the wound sizzled with the effect of the precious, deadly metal.

  Paul thrashed around for a few moments, groaning in pain, then seemed to get control of himself again. He turned and looked at David. Blood trickled down his face, painting half of it shiny red. Again his eyes held no fear or malice. Just that strange sadness that David couldn’t understand.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ David hissed between clenched teeth, furious now. ‘I’ll kill you, the same way I killed...’ He trailed off then, and blinked. His anger drained out of him as suddenly as it had arrived. In his mind he saw his wife again, the same two images of her he’d experienced before: happy on their wedding day and then cold and still just a few days ago. He was responsible for both.

  Forget her. She betrayed you. His father’s voice was stern.